Of the First Tears
by TulisseFindekano
Summary: or, Sons of Guilin. "The orcs were close when Gwindor got back to the outworks. And he was shocked at the orcs, shocked at their prisoner. The prisoner was an elf." Rated T for violence and angst. Please read and review!
1. Gwindor

**DISCLAIMER: I am simply borrowing the wonderful Gelmir, Gwindor, and Findekano (Fingon) from the brilliant J.R.R. Tolkien. Rated T for violence and angst.**

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Two soldiers rode up to Fingon from the outworks. Orcs had been seen approaching, a small group of them, and not large enough or threatening enough to be an army. The two elves bore Fingon's own device on their breastplates, though they were not from Hithlum. He knew them - Gwindor, a prince of Nargothrond, and his shieldbearer. Their matching blue cloaks swished slightly as they rode to the High King of the Noldor, and commander of the western host.

"News on the approaching orcs?" Fingon asked.

The shield bearer, a young elf of a few hundred years, nodded. "Parley, they want a parley."

"It is madness to agree. Let us kill them as they come," Gwindor said, a spark of flame in his eyes. The hatred for Morgoth-spawn was hot in them. After all, his brother Gelmir had been taken or killed at Dagor Bragollach.

"Nay, Gwindor. We must see what they have to say." Fingon's keen eyes searched Anfauglith anxiously. "No doubt they want to draw us out. We must stick to Maedhros' plan and stay here."

The prince merely grunted in reply. He didn't like that decision, but he had to obey his King.

Fingon waved his hand. "Go back to your positions."

"Mae, your Majesty." He turned to the shieldbearer. "Come, Celegros."

The orcs were close when Gwindor got back to the outworks. And he was shocked. Shocked at the orcs, at their prisoner.

The prisoner was an elf.

And somehow, he seemed… familiar. Too familiar. The name escaped him and flew to the tip of his tongue. Then - Celegros said it the moment he remembered.

"Gelmir."

And it all made sense.

"Gelmir!"

What have they done to you, hanar? What have they done?

Tears sprang into his eyes, threatening, but he blinked them away angrily.

"Archers!" he cried, vengeance taking the better of him. "Shoot them!"

They raised their bows after the order was given, but another was yelled and they lowered their weapons simultaneously. Furious, he tried to wrest a bow from the nearest archer's hand. But his grip was like iron and Gwindor failed.

He only realized what he was doing when Celegros came between his naked blade and the archer. His shield bearer was saying something but he didn't hear it. His thoughts drowned out all sound.

Except for one.

A scream. A painful, heart-wrenching scream.

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_To Be Continued..._


	2. Gelmir

Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed, favourited, and followed!

_Translations:_

_hanar = brother_

_adar = father_

_naneth = mother_

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Darkness.

Darkness and pain. That was all there was now. Some times more than others, but it was always that. Darkness and pain. Nothing more.

Death. That was all he wished for, all he wanted, all he was looking forward to - but he knew death meant more pain.

And he'd had enough pain.

_Crack!_

Shocks of pain shot through his back and he fell face first onto the ground. Before he could recover, foul hands held him down, a foot pressing down on his back. Like it would take much to keep him down after all they'd done to him.

And then - fire.

His hand burned and he screamed, his voice already so feeble and so fragile. But no scream could possibly contain this pain. From somewhere that seemed a world away, there were voices.

Voices, and words. _Words._ They weren't foul.

They were Elven. But he couldn't understand them. They seemed as if they were from a different life, though some part of him, some small part of him knew them, recognized them. But there was one that stood out. It sliced right through the pain and the darkness, the fire and ice.

"GELMIR!"

So much was in that voice, in that word. So much anger, so much pain, confusion, sadness, anguish, sorrow… It was too much. Too much for him to take. He remembered the owner of the voice. It was one he hadn't heard in so long. Too long.

_"I won't leave you!"_

_"Run, hanar! Save yourself."_

_"No, I won't. I can't."_

_"You must. Th-they're coming."_

_"Adar will have two sons or none!"_

_"He will have one! Go. Now, before it's too late."_

_"If I return, I will live in shame! I failed to protect you!"_

_"But live you must, hanar. Go! Naneth would not want you to throw your life away."_

_"Gelmir-"_

_"Go!"_

That had been the last time he'd heard the voice. It was there again, crying out his name.

And then fire. Fire again. Burning pain.

Another scream. More pain any scream could not contain, could not possibly express.

He wished he could cry, could wash away the fire with his hot tears.

But there were no more eyes to see with, no more eyes to cry with.

No more tears.

And at last, he felt it coming - his wish. But he didn't want it. He didn't want it anymore. He wanted to go back to the words, the fair voices. Suddenly, he could see it in his mind's eye again. The caves. The pillars of stone looming over those that stood beneath them like giant stone sentinels.

The banquets. His father, his brother. They seemed so close. So close but so far away. So… far… They began to fade without warning.

_No! Don't go!_

He was drifting, drifting away from the memories. Memories he had lost for such a long time that had only just come back. He groped around for them but it only made it worse. They faded into blackness.

The fire was still there, in his hands, on his feet.

But it wasn't long before he, too, faded into blackness and passed into halls that the living do not seek.

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_To Be Continued..._


	3. Acharn

**Thanks to all who reviewed, followed, and favourited! Thank you very much! ****This is the final chapter (and the beginning of Nirnaeth Arnoediad). Sorry about the length, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless!**

_What's What:_

_A mahta tenna qualme - Fight to the death (Quenya)_

_Acharn - Vengeance (Sindarin)_

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And all of a sudden the elves of Nargothrond, and many others with them, leapt forth, a fell light in their eyes. Their horses' hooves thundered, singing a song of war that instilled fear in the black hearts of the orcs.

Gwindor was blinded by a furious rage. A dreadful fire was in his eyes as he led the riders in a spearhead formation that cut through the orcs like a sharp knife through soft cheese. On, he and his followers pressed; relentlessly, tirelessly, almost unbreakable.

Almost at once, the High King Fingon put on his white helm and unsheathed his sword. The sun's light glinted off the blade as he raised and drove it forward.

"A mahta tenna qualmë!"

And thousands of voices, the voices of Eldar, trumpets, and naked steel repeated the bold cry as they charged forward into the fray. It was as if a great storm had come down to renew the land and wash away the foul shadows of evil.

Still, at the forefront of the whole host fought Gwindor, that mighty prince of Nargothrond, destroying all in his path, never stopping. His people were never far behind, their rage and their thirst for vengeance sustaining them. And even so, they came to the gates of Angband and pounded on the very doors of hell.

As they burst through the gates, they cried out with one fell voice:

"ACHARN!"

And they were never seen again, save one… and he was never the same.


End file.
